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Bruce hadn’t necessarily considered himself to be well adjusted before parenthood, but he could safely say he’d gotten about ten times worse since taking in a doe-eyed circus orphan.
There wasn’t really any gentle way to put it: he hated letting the boy out of his sight, with the only exception being if Alfred was the one looking after him. He’d just recently started attending galas again, and when he did the young acrobat was basically glued to his hip at all times.
Admittedly, his separation anxiety was mostly derived from just how much of himself he saw in the boy. He remembered being young and deep in grief over the sudden loss of his own mother and father. He remembered the way the press chased the story like persistent vultures, all looking for a photo of the Wayne heir’s tear stained face. He remembered sobbing himself to sleep every night surrounded by only shadows so that they wouldn’t get it. So, of course he was determined to do everything in his power to protect this young child who’d suffered the same tragic fate that he had.
There was, of course, the matter of his company to contend with, as he couldn’t just expect it to run itself. But he’d mostly compromised by holding virtual meetings and, very rarely, having a business partner or interviewer over to the manor for an in person meeting.
So, he’d become a bit of a recluse. It wasn’t that uncommon. There were plenty of rich billionaires who hid away in their mansions and never bothered to come out again, it had all been working just fine. Until now, that is.
Alfred almost never took time off, but some time ago he’d set aside a chosen assemblage of days to take a brief holiday back to London. Given how much he did for Bruce on average, from maintaining the household to sewing up wounds after a patrol, he would be loath to disturb him; even if he hadn’t been an ocean away.
An important investor in his latest campaign to improve the city’s infrastructure was causing problems and demanding that Bruce come to him to discuss the issue. He’d tried his best to finagle his way out of it, but no such luck. And there lay the conundrum: a child had no place at a this type of serious and potentially hostile business meeting, but he simply had to go or risk the betterment of his city.
So now the challenge was finding a reliable candidate to watch over his already shy and virtually nonverbal ward.
He’d briefly considered Selina, but they hadn’t been on the best of terms lately. He didn’t think she would ever try to harm the boy, but he also didn’t trust her not to steal anything that wasn’t nailed down. So, she was out.
There was always the option of a traditional babysitter, but Bruce didn’t feel comfortable letting anyone into his home or near his child without a thorough vetting that he simply did not have the time for.
As per usual, Alfred had been the one to find the solution; even over Bruce’s frantic phone calls. The suggestion being none other than fellow Justice League member and part time reporter, Clark Kent.
It wasn’t a bad suggestion. Dick enjoyed watching the various feats of superheroes on the news, particularly that of Big Blue. And Bruce had no reason to object, exactly. Even if he and Clark had only recently started becoming what one might technically describe as friends, Bruce admittedly couldn’t think of anyone more infuriatingly trustworthy than the Boy Scout. It was a good idea, he just couldn’t stop himself from worrying even as he picked up his phone to make the call.
The request was made last minute, but Clark had accepted happily and in less time than it took for him to hang up, the excitable alien was waiting outside. He still left the manor with trepidation, leaving Dick with a promise that he’d only be gone for a few hours before he came right back.
He hadn’t had the chance to explain the full extent of Richard’s condition, only that he was very quiet and was wary of strangers. Clark had nodded understandingly, and finally Bruce had had to take his leave. Now the only thing he could do was see what awaited him when he got home.
By the time the car finally rolled up to the manor, it was half past ten. Pale beams of moonlight poked through the dark fog lingering over Gotham’s skyline like a moth eaten blanket. He could see the lights in the main hall were still on, casting a warm orange glow across the front drive. It contrasted well with the cool blues of the gardens, making the gloom of the night appear slightly less sinister than usual.
The logical, more reasonable part of him knew that Clark will have likely done a perfectly fine job keeping Dick alive. He was Superman, after all.
Not only was he probably one of the best people to have protecting his child from any potential threats that might befall the manor, being the near invincible entity that he was; but perhaps more importantly, Superman was famously beloved by children. Bruce had seen it firsthand one day when he’d been in Metropolis after a mission.
As soon as his boots touched the ground, it seemed, a small hoard of children were swarming him; pulling at his cloak, hanging off his arms, asking for hugs and high fives.
Clark handled them easily enough, answering questions and nodding along good-naturedly to whatever they said. It was obvious why they loved him; the man was all bright colors and easy smiles and encouraging words.
He was a natural. There should be no one better than him for Bruce to trust in this scenario.
Bruce was nothing if not paranoid, though; and the other, less helpful, part of his brain kept conjuring up continuously worse images of his ward distressed and in tears at being left with someone he didn’t know.
He took the front steps two at a time, practically tripping through the threshold as the heavy front doors parted for him. Dick should’ve been in bed by this point, but the lights he’d seen on in the upper hallway suggested otherwise. He wasn’t sure whether to be worried or annoyed by this revelation, but it didn’t matter much at the moment. His first order of business was finding Clark and his child.
Amateur detective skills led him to the library, only to freeze where he stood.
He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find exactly, but it wasn’t his notoriously shy ward latched onto his semi-coworker like a touch-starved koala. Clark didn’t seem thrown off at all, pacing slowly back and forth in front of the dwindling fireplace while humming something soft and folky that Bruce had never heard before.
Any panic that’d built up on the way over had vanished suddenly. Dick didn’t look distressed at all. In fact, he seemed content; curled into Clark’s protective hold like he belonged there. The sweetness of the scene made something warm bloom in his chest.
Clark turned to him then, all worn flannel and tussled curls. He must have heard Bruce’s approach halfway across the city, but he always did a good job of acting surprised when someone entered a room. He’d found it irritating at first, but now it was almost endearing; like those thick black frames that he didn’t need, but always wore.
“Bruce!” Clark smiled, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the sleeping child that was practically welded to him. “Sorry, I meant to get him upstairs much earlier, but he nodded off down here and I was trying not to wake him.”
Dick shifted slightly in his arms, only to burrow further into the Kryptonian holding him in a drowsy effort to block out the words. Impossibly, Clark’s smile softened further.
“Everything went well I think, Richard was…fine…we ate dinner and read a bit.” The man paused in his report. “I hope you don’t mind, but I told him some stories from Krypton—he really liked the ones about Nightwing and Flamebird.”
Neither of those names were familiar to Bruce, but he trusted Clark not to share anything that might be deemed inappropriate for a child; and if it made Dick happy then he was willing to make some exceptions anyway.
Then the man bit his lip, almost insecurely. “I don’t think he likes me very much, though. He only spoke to me, like, twice and—“
Now that got Bruce’s attention. In the almost half a year he’d had Dick in his care, the boy had barely uttered three sentences. The trauma of watching his parents’ death had left him almost completely nonverbal, it seemed—a coping mechanism that Bruce found all too familiar. He and Alfred tried their best to accommodate by finding alternative ways for him to communicate and provide a supportive environment, but they couldn’t force results. How on Earth had Clark gotten those results in a matter of hours?
Bruce tried to keep his voice steady. “He…he spoke to you?”
The last time Dick had spoken to him was two months ago, to ask what would happen if Bruce ever died too. He’d admit he could’ve reacted a bit better than he did, but he’d been too caught off guard to give the even, reassuring answer he’d have liked to. In the end, Bruce had told him that he wouldn’t be dropped into foster care. That Alfred would look after him, or someone else he trusted would take custody. Bruce wanted to simply tell him that he wouldn’t die, but, given his nightly activities, death was a valid concern.
At the moment, though, he was simply flabbergasted and, ashamedly, a bit jealous.
Clark seemed oblivious to his inner turmoil, however, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck in that stupid, charming, bashful way that he did. “Barely! Look I’m really sorry, Bruce—I thought I was better with kids than this. I guess I was overselling it a bit…”
Bruce cleared his throat, still just staring at the pair like an idiot. He was so proud of his kid, was the thing; that he’d felt either brave or comfortable enough to use his words again. And regretful that this was something Clark could seemingly provide automatically, while he couldn’t. At the moment, speech seemed to be escaping him instead.
Finally, he managed. “He hasn’t spoken in two months.”
The meta blinked down at the delicate boy in his arms, smile straightening into a thin line. “Oh…”
They looked at each other and after full minute of no further elaboration, Bruce turned slowly towards the doorway. Clark followed and soon they found themselves up the staircase, down the hall, tucking Dick into bed. It took some untangling at first; every time Clark attempted to lower him onto the mattress, the tiny grip just seemed to tighten. Finally, sheets were pulled up, lights were turned off, and the two adults headed downstairs. They stopped just in front of the large mahogany doors, Clark waiting patiently while Bruce attempted to get his words in order.
An explanation made the most sense to start with. “Dick has barely spoken since his parents’ passing. It is a trauma response similar to the one I displayed when my own parents were killed. I have been trying to create an environment in which he may feel more comfortable talking, but thus far the results have been…limited.” Bruce was not known amongst his work colleagues to be particularly emotional, but he attempted to convey as much genuine gratitude as he could with what he said next. “Thank you. Not only for watching him last minute, but also for doing what I couldn’t.”
He shouldn’t have been surprised when Clark disagreed. That damn humble Midwestern demeanor.
“I’m glad I could help, B—but really, you’re the one doing all the work here.”
Bruce shook his head. “Not enough.”
Those stunning blue eyes studied him, as if trying to puzzle out something particularly difficult. He made sure Bruce was looking at him when he spoke next.
“Dick likes it here.” The statement was so startlingly certain in its delivery that he nearly didn’t process it, despite the shot of relief it sent down his spine. “He told me that he still misses his parents, even though you and Alfred are nice and take care of him.”
“We had a little talk about how that’s okay and that he’s allowed to feel both,” Clark was rubbing the back of his neck again and avoiding eye contact. “Er, I guess I did most of the talking…”
A slight fluttering was beginning to build in his ribcage. At first, Bruce mistook it for rage. How dare this man be so perfect and handsome and polite and good with kids. He might’ve punched him if he wasn’t on the verge of tears.
“He knows you’re trying, is what I mean to say.” Clark continued. “You make him feel safe.”
Bruce didn’t know how to respond. He had half a mind to tell the man to stay forever, but that would be inappropriate. Instead, he just nodded.
Clark was already making his way down the drive when something finally occurred to him.
“Clark!” He called. The man glanced back, curious. “You are free to come visit whenever you’d like. I’m sure Dick will want to see you again.”
Clark smiled. “Of course. I’d love to.”
He then glanced briefly past Bruce’s shoulder to the top of the staircase, but didn’t say anything other than: “Goodnight.”
Then, with nothing but a whisper of a breeze in his wake, he was gone. Bruce watched after the place he had just been a moment prior, something like peace settling deep into his bones.
Finally, he turned back inside, looking up at the empty staircase just as Clark had.
“I had thought I just put you to bed.” He announced to the air, making sure his voice was devoid of amusement.
A small mop of dark hair popped out from behind one of the ornately carved railings, smiling somewhat mischievously. Bruce couldn’t help but smile back. “Get back to bed now and I won’t tell Alfred you were up.”
The boy’s eyes widened slightly, before he took off running down the hall. When he heard the faint slam of a door closing, he allowed himself one more look out into the cool night; feeling warmed from his very soul.
Perhaps it would be good for both of them if Clark were to visit again.